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THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, | |
Wherein the Son of heavens eternal king, | |
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, | |
Our great redemption from above did bring | |
For so the holy sages once did sing | 5 |
That He our deadly forfeit should release, | |
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. | |
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That glorious form, that light unsufferable, | |
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty | |
Wherewith He wont at heavens high council-table | 10 |
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, | |
He laid aside; and here with us to be, | |
Forsook the courts of everlasting day, | |
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. | |
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Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein | 15 |
Afford a present to the infant God? | |
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, | |
To welcome Him to this His new abode | |
Now while the heaven, by the suns team untrod, | |
Hath took no print of the approaching light, | 20 |
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? | |
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See how from far upon the eastern road | |
The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! | |
Oh! run, prevent them with thy humble ode, | |
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet; | 25 |
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, | |
And join thy voice unto the angel choir, | |
From out His secret altar touched with hallowed fire. | |
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THE HYMN It was the winter wild | |
While the heaven-born child | 30 |
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies | |
Nature, in awe to Him, | |
Had doffed her gaudy trim, | |
With her great Master so to sympathize; | |
It was no season then for her | 35 |
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. | |
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Only with speeches fair | |
She woos the gentle air | |
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, | |
And on her naked shame, | 40 |
Pollute with sinful blame, | |
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw | |
Confounded that her makers eyes | |
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. | |
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But He, her fears to cease, | 45 |
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; | |
She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding | |
Down through the turning sphere, | |
His ready harbinger, | |
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; | 50 |
And waving wide her myrtle wand, | |
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. | |
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Nor war, or battles sound, | |
Was heard the world around | |
The idle spear and shield were high up hung; | 55 |
The hookèd chariot stood | |
Unstained with hostile blood; | |
The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; | |
And kings sat still with awful eye, | |
As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. | 60 |
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But peaceful was the night | |
Wherein the prince of light | |
His reign of peace upon the earth began; | |
The winds, with wonder whist, | |
Smoothly the waters kissed, | 65 |
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, | |
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, | |
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. | |
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The stars with deep amaze | |
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, | 70 |
Bending one way their precious influence; | |
And will not take their flight | |
For all the morning light, | |
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; | |
But in their glimmering orbs did glow | 75 |
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. | |
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And though the shady gloom | |
Had given day her room, | |
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, | |
And hid his head for shame, | 80 |
As his inferior flame | |
The new-enlightened world no more should need; | |
He saw a greater sun appear | |
Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree could bear. | |
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The shepherds on the lawn, | 85 |
Or eer the point of dawn, | |
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; | |
Full little thought they then | |
That the mighty Pan | |
Was kindly come to live with them below; | 90 |
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, | |
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. | |
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When such music sweet | |
Their hearts and ears did greet | |
As never was by mortal finger strook | 95 |
Divinely-warbled voice | |
Answering the stringed noise, | |
As all their souls in blissful rapture took; | |
The air, such pleasure loath to lose, | |
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. | 100 |
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Nature, that heard such sound | |
Beneath the hollow round | |
Of Cynthias seat the airy region thrilling, | |
Now was almost won | |
To think her part was done, | 105 |
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; | |
She knew such harmony alone | |
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. | |
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At last surrounds their sight | |
A globe of circular light, | 110 |
That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; | |
The helmèd cherubim | |
And sworded seraphim | |
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, | |
Harping in loud and solemn choir, | 115 |
With unexpressive notes, to heavens new-born heir | |
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Such music as (tis said) | |
Before was never made, | |
But when of old the sons of morning sung, | |
While the Creator great | 120 |
His constellations set, | |
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, | |
And cast the dark foundations deep, | |
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. | |
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Ring out, ye crystal spheres! | 125 |
Once bless our human ears, | |
If ye have power to touch our senses so; | |
And let your silver chime | |
Move in melodious time, | |
And let the bass of heavens deep organ blow; | 130 |
And with your ninefold harmony | |
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. | |
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For if such holy song | |
Inwrap our fancy long, | |
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; | 135 |
And speckled vanity | |
Will sicken soon and die, | |
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; | |
And hell itself will pass away, | |
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. | 140 |
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Yea, truth and justice then | |
Will down return to men, | |
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, | |
Mercy will sit between, | |
Throned in celestial sheen, | 145 |
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; | |
And heaven, as at some festival, | |
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. | |
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But wisest fate says No | |
This must not yet be so; | 150 |
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy | |
That on the bitter cross | |
Must redeem our loss, | |
So both Himself and us to glorify. | |
Yet first to those ye chained in sleep | 155 |
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, | |
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With such a horrid clang | |
As on Mount Sinai rang, | |
While the red fire and smouldring clouds outbrake; | |
The aged earth, aghast | 160 |
With terror of that blast, | |
Shall from the surface to the centre shake | |
When, at the worlds last session, | |
The dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his throne. | |
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And then at last our bliss | 165 |
Full and perfect is | |
But now begins: for from this happy day | |
The old dragon, under ground | |
In straiter limits bound, | |
Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, | 170 |
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, | |
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. | |
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The oracles are dumb: | |
No voice or hideous hum | |
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving; | 175 |
Apollo from his shrine | |
Can no more divine, | |
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving; | |
No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, | |
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. | 180 |
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The lonely mountains oer, | |
And the resounding shore, | |
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; | |
From haunted spring, and dale | |
Edged with poplar pale, | 185 |
The parting genius is with sighing sent; | |
With flower-inwoven tresses torn | |
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. | |
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In consecrated earth, | |
And on the holy hearth, | 190 |
The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint; | |
In urns and altars round | |
A drear and dying sound | |
Affrights the flamens at their service quaint; | |
And the chill marble seems to sweat, | 195 |
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. | |
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Peor and Baälim | |
Forsake their temples dim, | |
With that twice-battered god of Palestine; | |
And moonèd Ashtaroth, | 200 |
Heavens queen and mother both, | |
Now sits not girt with tapers holy shine; | |
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn | |
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. | |
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And sullen Moloch fled, | 205 |
Hath left in shadows dread | |
His burning idol all of blackest hue; | |
In vain, with cymbals ring, | |
They call the grisly king, | |
In dismal dance about the furnace blue; | 210 |
The brutish gods of Nile as fast | |
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubishaste. | |
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Nor is Osiris seen | |
In Memphian grove or green, | |
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud, | 215 |
Nor can he be at rest | |
Within his sacred chest | |
Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; | |
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark, | |
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. | 220 |
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He feels from Judas land | |
The dreaded infants hand | |
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; | |
Nor all the gods beside | |
Longer dare abide | 225 |
Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine; | |
Our babe, to show His God-head true, | |
Can in His swaddling-bands control the damnèd crew. | |
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So, when the sun in bed, | |
Curtained with cloudy red, | 230 |
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, | |
The flocking shadows pale | |
Troop to the infernal jail | |
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; | |
And the yellow-skirted fays | 235 |
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. | |
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But see the virgin blest | |
Hath laid her babe to rest | |
Time is our tedious song should here have ending; | |
Heavens youngest teemèd star | 240 |
Hath fixed her polished car, | |
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; | |
And all about the courtly stable | |
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. | |
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